


sweetness follows

by epersonae



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Chosen Club, F/M, Friends to Lovers, I don't have this planned at all, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, Secret Bon Appetit Goof, Slow Burn, Spoilers, technically enemies to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2020-10-30 01:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epersonae/pseuds/epersonae
Summary: The worlds are saved, the fight is over, and it's time to grow...in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Slow burn? From me? There's a first time for everything, I guess. XD But this one grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go like nothing has since the Stolen Century reveal.

It’s not like there's a whole lot of question about where any of them are headed. Sure, Thacker could technically go either way, but he’s obviously drawn to that weird shit and it’s not like he’s got a life on Earth to jump right back into. And Aubrey: well, Duck’s no fool, he knows how she looks at Dani, and Dani’s got a world to rejoin.

Same as how Duck’s got a world to rejoin, is how he sees it, and that world is Earth. He’s got family, hasn’t he? (And won’t it be good to see Janey again in the flesh, assuming she can get back in through the blockade. Spooked him something fierce to see an half-formed simulacrum of her in that pod.) And a forest. And an apartment. Maybe he can take out his model ships, now that his apartment isn’t full of other people….

And as Mama’s walking past him into the archway, after giving her fond farewells to Aubrey and Thacker both, shaking hands with Vincent, Duck looks at Minerva. She’s got her head cocked, her usual animated expression quiet and thoughtful, and she’s looking between the gateways, then back at Billy — or where Billy was, the dim lights of the monitors lighting the dusty space.

“Ya comin’ with?” he says, easy, relaxed, like it’s as obvious for her as it is for him, or as if they were getting ready to go out to dinner.

“Yes, Wayne Newton, I believe I will come with you to Earth,” she says, and he winces a little, still, at the use of his given name, what with Aubrey snickering in the background, mouthing  _ Wayne Newton _ like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. It’s not a lie to say that he sort of regrets telling Minerva she could call him that, and at the same time, he doesn’t regret it at all.

“Excellent, hopefully we ain’t missed The Voice, what with all the….” And Duck waves a hand at the ship, the destruction around them, the destruction  _ he  _ wreaked, and ain’t that wild?

Minerva laughs, then, that loud laugh that fills any space she’s in, and she throws one of those ridiculously powerful arms around his shoulders. Thacker shakes his hand, bows to Minerva, and is off with a spring in his step, ready to explore a new world. Similarly, Vincent departs: with a farewell from one professional to another, and shaking Minerva’s hand the same way.

Aubrey, though, pausing on the verge of the archway to Sylvain, and she turns with the sudden energy he’s come to know so well, tears in her eyes. She throws her arms around them, Duck and Minerva both. Duck’s never been one for group hugs, feels lucky that team-building in the forest service hasn’t been too touchy-feely, and yet, he relaxes into it, the close comfort of friends, with a sigh that just starts to let out the tension of the last weeks and months.

“We’ll figure it out,” Aubrey says, and all he can say is “Yeah,” because it’s not like there’s anything  _ he’s _ gonna do about it, and at the same time, he thinks maybe one of them will figure out how to repair the gate, or make a new one, or get some wifi over to Sylvain? Something like that.

“That is the spirit, Aubrey Little,” adds Minerva, “I am sure that together we shall endeavor to communicate between and perhaps even rejoin these two great worlds.”

Aubrey gives Minerva a crooked smile, and Duck can see that she’s about to start crying for real.

“Go on,” he says, giving her a little shove towards the archway. “Tell that girlfriend of yours we said hello.” Mentioning Dani has the desired effect, as Aubrey blushes, her eyes darting towards the glowing portal, and then she’s off at a run through it.

“Guess it’s just us, ain’t it?” he says to Minerva. “What do ya say?”

She looks solemn as she takes one last slow look at the...whatever it is...spacecraft, space station, alien outpost. Still kinda blows his mind that he actually figured it out, that it was aliens; usually he’s the last to work out something like that. 

“I say we see if there are any more frozen waffles to consume, and then yes, we will watch some excellent televised entertainment!”

“That’s the spirit,” he replies as they walk through the glowing portal back to Kepler.

Which in his head, seemed like it ought to be be exhilarating or triumphant, but mostly he feels a little uneasy, walking into Billy's old room up over the Cryptonomica. Duck hesitates, clears his throat, looking at the outline of the missing PlayStation on the cluttered shelf. 

"What troubles you, Wayne Newton?" Minerva asks. 

"Ahhh, nothing," he says, because he doesn't quite know how to articulate it. "Just…. Hope he's doing okay out there, ya know?" 

She nods, and for a moment it looks like she's about to say something. He wonders if she's thinking of their fight, after he first saved Billy. He thinks of Beacon. He clears his throat again. 

"Yes, we should go," she says. "We will inform Kirby and any others of our intentions to eat and watch television, and assure them that the danger is past." 

"I'm sure Mama's already got that covered," he says as they walk down the stairs, "well maybe not the part about us getting frozen waffles and watching The Voice, but like, world's safe and all that."

In fact, Mama is still talking to Kirby, whose eyes are like saucers; he's saying, “Damn, I guess Eugene was right, really were aliens in Kepler.”

“But you already knew there were aliens,” says Minerva. “you have met the fine folk of Sylvain, as well as myself, the last remaining inhabitant of Miralaviniax Orbital Body 5.” Duck catches a shadow of expression on her face that he can’t quite identify, some blend of sorrow and regret.

Kirby shrugs. “Yeah, but like, a real spaceship?” He looks at Duck, Minerva, and Mama with something approaching awe. 

"About that… you know, we should probably still keep that… Ah…." Duck feels awkward suggesting that they go back to keeping secrets, but he knows how people are. 

But Mama and Kirby are both nodding. "Keep it on the down-low," Mama says, and with an eye on Minerva, "No offense?" 

"Man, I do  _ not  _ want to deal with the feds again," says Kirby. 

"There is no offense to be had on my part, Madeline Cobb. It seems to me that the reaction of your civil authorities, the 'feds' as you call them, it is likely to do more harm than good here."

"Ain't that the understatement of the year," mutters Duck. She squeezes his shoulder. 

"I would never do anything to put your home in jeopardy, Wayne Newton." Out of the corner of his eye, Duck catches Kirby's eyebrows jump in startlement; he’s gonna have to say something to her, he’s afraid, either that or just deal with  _ this _ for the next however long. “After all, was it not my mission to ensure that you were able to defend it?”

"I suppose it was. Did pretty good at that, huh?" 

He tentatively gives her a little shoulder shove, and she beams.

“Beyond my wildest expectations—” And she pauses, and is that a twinkle in her eye? “ _ Duck  _ Newton.”

//

“It is the usual time for training,” Minerva says, some hours later, although she doesn't move an inch from the couch. They’d missed The Voice, and his DVR had glitched out, so they've been watching the Ken Burns series about the history of the National Parks, though he has to keep reminding her that he works for the Forest Service, not the parks. Still, it's pretty close, and she was curious how all that works. 

"Yeah, I s'pose," is all he says. He's not sure he sees the point in training, but probably ought to get back to some kind of routine. Tomorrow he's going to see if work is back to normal, assuming he still has a job. 

She doesn't push, even as he can feel the slight change in her posture, like she's getting ready to move. He's not used to sitting close to another person, never really lived with anybody, except some dudes in college. But guys always sit way apart, is his experience, mostly because they don't want anybody thinking they might be gay. (Which is a whole other train of thought he's not gonna follow right now.) 

Minerva, though — and maybe it was because when she first got here there were always half a dozen folks jammed in his apartment at any given time, or maybe all her people were like that — Minerva sits close, hip to hip, most times, and sometimes with her arm around his shoulders. It's…nice, if he's being honest. It also means he's real aware of how her moods come across in her movements. So he figures probably ought to think about getting up, however much fun it is to goof on John Muir or whatever. 

Just about as he's having that thought, there's a knock at the door, which he recognizes as Leo's. And then a second knock, slightly different pattern, which means Sarah's there too, probably. 

"I guess we're training, huh?" he says, reluctantly moving from the couch to get the door. 

"It would appear so, Wayne Newton," replies Minerva. "I will turn off the video streaming service, if you would like to greet our guests." 

Weird, to feel nostalgia for the stress and energy of an apartment crowded full of people preparing in one way or another for the possible end of the world. That’s what it is, though, Duck realizes as Leo and Sarah come in; Juno’s with them, and she and Sarah are joking with each other — a goof he remembers from high school, even.

The living room feels  _ warmer _ suddenly, an energy he didn’t realize he was missing. And at the same time, he almost wishes it was just him and Minerva, and maybe he’s wishing for something else entirely that’s right at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite….

“Can’t believe you aren’t already out back sparring,” is what Leo is saying to Minerva, who laughs her hearty laugh.

“We were so engrossed!” she says. “In the history of the men with the curious facial hairs who wanted to protect trees!” She smiles at him. “Kindred spirits to our friend Wayne Newton, I imagine.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna be comparing me to ol’ Teddy Roosevelt,” he replies.

“You did have those little hippie glasses, in what, like tenth grade?” Sarah says with a quirk of a smile.

“ _ Oh god _ I absolutely forgot about those fucking things,” Juno adds. She holds up her hands like she’s framing a picture. “You know what? We get a mustache on Duck here, that’d be a pretty good likeness.”

“A little bit short, though,” Sarah replies, her gaze moving from Duck to Minerva towering behind him.

Duck squirms under the teasing, heading for the door. “Alright, alright, alright, let’s do some training or whatever, no need for speculating about weird historical cosplay.” Then he pauses, looks back towards the kitchen, the shut cupboards that now just hold plates and mugs. “Well…. Fuck. I don’t got Beacon no more.” He sort of wants to ask  _ what’s the point, anyway _ but lets the thought hang in the air unsaid, still, again.

“Do you not wish to practice our martial skills, Wayne Newton?” Minerva places a hand on his shoulder, lighter than usual.

“Naw, naw, I just…. You know. No sword. So….”

“Of course you can use mine,” Leo says, hefting the broadsword up like he’s the Highlander or something.

“I know we’re not getting ready for another alien invasion, I hope anyway,” says Sarah, seeming to catch some of Duck’s meaning, “but it’s kinda fun. Beats Zumba or whatever weird new fad my girlfriend’s gonna get excited about.” She strikes a pose with her own sword, grinning, and he thinks of them all as kids, playing hockey in the abandoned Altizers, just fucking around. It could be like that, maybe, and maybe that’d be okay.

“Y’all gonna teach me some of your slick moves?” Juno says as they all head out into the backyard together. “Feel like I’m the odd one out, what with everyone being all Highlander out here.”

“What is this Highlander that you Earth people keep talking about?” Minerva asks. “Wayne Newton also referred to a Highlander person, of whom there may be only a single one?”

Juno snickers, and Duck can’t tell if she’s laughing at Minerva mangling the Highlander reference or Minerva calling him “Wayne”, and he isn’t gonna ask.

“Yeah Duck was real into that for a hot minute in high school….” Juno trails off, blinking and looking into the distance, and then looks at Sarah, and then at Minerva again, and then back at Duck. “Hey  _ Duck _ ? Is  _ that _ what that was about?”

He’s studiously not looking at her, instead moving through the forms Minerva had taught him over the last year and a bit. Feels different, the weight of Leo’s broadsword versus the nimble flexibility of Beacon. He clears his throat, feeling his face getting hot, remembering how much he avoided anything that smacked of a destiny, while at the same time he couldn’t stop himself from watching so much of that stupid TV show.

“Yeah, that’s about what I figured,” Juno says. She claps an arm on Minerva’s shoulder. “One of these days you gotta get him to show you the movie, at least. TV show was garbage, but no accounting for taste, I guess.”

“I have enjoyed many shows that I have heard described as  _ garbage,  _ Juno Divine, and it is amazing to me how compelling such works can be if one is able to enter fully into their world.” She turns the bright beam of her smile onto Duck, who pauses, still in a forward lunge. “Perhaps after our exertions you can show me this Highlander and I will understand what it has to do with your experience as a Chosen One.”

“Well it ain’t anything like real New York,” Leo says with a huff as he takes a spot in one of the battered plastic chairs, ready to watch Sarah and Duck and Minerva go through their paces on the back lawn. “But it’s fun shit if you wanna kill a couple hours with some friends.”

And here’s the thing, Duck realizes as he’s twenty minutes into a sparring match with Minerva, while Leo and Sarah are trying to teach Juno some beginner stances. She’s a quick study, which doesn’t surprise him at all; Juno’s always been sharp as hell. Duck pauses for half a second, catching them out of the corner of his eye, in between blocking attacks from Minerva, and he feels like this too is  _ fun shit if you wanna kill a couple hours.  _ He just doesn’t know where it goes from there.

Minerva’s paused, too, as the longsword slides down along the edge of her blade and catches on the spike, and he realizes that she’s watching him with the same thoughtful intent that he’s watching the others.

“There are not many opportunities for the practical use of the sword in your world, Wayne Newton?” she asks as she twists her Zweihander ever so slightly, his own sword (well, Leo’s sword) turned back on him. “Perhaps the nimbleness will serve you — will serve all of us — in some other endeavor.”

“Yeah, I s’pose,” he replies, shifting his feet and trying to maneuver around her as she twirls the blade with her usual speed and agility. He’s gotten better, with all this practice, but she has a lifetime (another glance at Leo — two lifetimes?) worth of skill; it’s intimidating to face. It’s amazing to watch.

But there’s not even really time to think about that, as he fends off another advance before slipping in with a close-in attack, so close he can hear her breathing. Not often he gets through with a hit, and he finds himself grinning as Leo’s broadsword clanks against the guard of the Zweihander. 

Behind them, Leo gives a cab-hailing whistle, shouting, “Ya still got it, kiddo,” while Sarah adds,  _ “Nice.” _ Duck and Minerva break off their sparring; Minerva bows, and Duck just chuckles, waving off the bow. Juno approaches them, eyes wide. “I also want a sword,” she whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva considers an Earth saying. Duck goes back to work. Juno has a word.

It hits him again, how it’s all over; after Leo goes home, after Sarah leaves for her shift at the telescope, making Juno promise they’ll hang out later, and finally Juno takes off with hugs for him and Minerva both.  _ Damn, girl,  _ she says with a sigh after Minerva bear-hugs her the way she does. And then they’re gone, and it hits him again: no Aubrey, which means no Doctor Harris Bonkers PhD trying to chew on his couch, no Dani making goo-goo eyes at Aubrey, just him and Minerva, and really, he’s gonna go work tomorrow like it was before all that?

“Is something bothering you, Wayne Newton?” Minerva asks, still with one hand on the doorknob after saying goodbye.

He hesitates, a frown crinkling his brows. “Ah, just thinking I oughta get Cat back from Leo, now that I’m, you know, still alive and stuff.”

“If you like I would be happy to retrieve your feline from our friend Leo Tarkesian, since he is only just next door.” She looks ready to leap out the door; one of the great things about having her here, real and in the flesh, is how much Minerva dotes on that dumb critter.

“Naw, naw, it’s cool, I can bug Leo tomorrow, after uhhhh… Work?” He looks over at her, and it’s a struggle to put together what he’s thinking. “You gonna be okay? I mean, of course you’re gonna be okay, I’m just saying, I should probably see if I still have, you know, a job and stuff….”

“Wayne Newton, do you need me to contribute financially to the maintenance of your household?” Her frown mirrors his, and it gives him a little jolt of something — guilt maybe.

“Shit, that ain’t….” He shakes his head, then rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, you take as long as you need to figure out what all you’re gonna do. You’ve seen how I live, I’ve got enough savings to, whatever.”

Her voice is gentle when she responds, after a thoughtful beat of quiet between them. “I would not wish to be a disturbance in your routine, my friend.”

He blinks at that, swallows at the unfamiliar rush of feeling. “Well, I mean, you’ve been part of my routine for a good while now, huh? Be weird to, uh, not…?” He can see the shape of her projected form all those months, if he stops to think about it, the way she appeared for just a few moments, every day, the strange echo of music that he could almost taste. He’s not sure if that would be a thing, if she went somewhere else; that wormhole, is it still in his brain? Maybe, but somehow it’s nicer when she’s right here and he can see her smile. 

“Alright, but please let me know, Wayne Newton, if there’s anything I can do to assist while I am a guest in your home, either by my actions here or through participation in the capitalist economy. Perhaps Barclay might make use of my assistance to lift large items at the Amnesty Lodge? I can ask Madeline Cobb while you are back at the forest station?”

His thoughts stumble over the word “guest”, the way that idea comes with a time limit, after all, if someone’s a guest, eventually they go back to…. To what, exactly? Where is Minerva gonna go? At the same time, what, like she’s gonna just stay here in Kepler, in his little apartment?

But what he says instead is, “Fuck, I don’t even know how…. Are we gonna get you a fake Social Security number or some shit?” He laughs, feeling the rough uneasiness of it.

“If you need me to develop a secure number I am certain I can handle the calculations!” she says, and at that his nervous chuckle breaks into a guffaw.

“That ain’t even how, well anyway, if you wanna talk to Mama about working at the Lodge I guess that’s a thing. Hell, with all them Sylvans she’s probably better equipped than anybody. But you don’t have to on my account, just, you know….” He doesn’t know how to finish that thought, only that it would feel strange for her not to be there. So he lets the thought remain unsaid. “You wanna stay up a bit, watch a little something, maybe a bowl of cereal, or if you’re tired we could just hit the hay.”

“It is such a curious saying,  _ hit the hay,  _ and I have to wonder what kinds of terrible beds your people subjected themselves to, over your history, that this should be a metaphor for falling asleep. I much prefer your Air Mattress, even if I must occasionally engage its tiny fan in order to push more air into the bladder.” She pauses, so briefly that he thinks maybe he’s imagining it. “Perhaps it would be good for us to get some additional sleep, especially if you are to return to the rigors of your usual employment tomorrow.”

“Well I’ll prob’ly just be filling out a shit-ton of paperwork, but yeah, I could use the extra rest.”

“Good, good, that is an excellent habit, Wayne Newton, dear friend.” She stands in the doorway of the guest room, her intense gaze trained on him, and somehow, for once, it doesn’t make him squirm. Then she steps forward and wordlessly wraps him in a hug; he relaxes against her, ever so slightly.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. You get a good night sleep too,” he says, and she laughs, and he feels it in his own chest, and for a second, he thinks maybe he just would like that, forever. Which of course, can’t stay in a hug forever, got to go to bed at some point, but he does rest a little easier, and that’s pretty nice.

//

She’s still asleep when he gets up for work in the morning, or at least her door is still closed. (When did he start thinking of it as hers?) So he makes coffee and toast as quietly as he can, a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, grabs a pudding cup out of the fridge — butterscotch, his favorite. A moment’s pause to think that Aubrey won’t be making fun of him for it anymore.  _ More for me,  _ he mutters, although that feels a little crass to say out loud. He scratches the back of his head staring into the depths of the fridge.

“Oughta be about right, just don’t know about dinner,” he says, then looks down expecting Cat to be there asking for his breakfast, except Cat’s still at Leo’s. He lets out a sigh.

“Wayne Newton I am sure we can arrange for a good evening meal,” says Minerva, “do not let it trouble you so early in the morning.” She’s standing just past the doorway, wearing one of Aubrey’s t-shirts:  [ a woodcut of a bird with fancy lettering saying “I AM A GODDAMN DELIGHT” ](https://www.effinbirds.com/collections/clearance/products/delight-tee-2?variant=56075354114) and his spare pajama pants, plaid, that just come to about the middle of her calves. It’s been a heck of a thing, trying to find stuff for her to wear, what with the roadblock between Kepler and the mall in Elkins. She seems to take it all in stride, though.

“Yeah, it’s cool, just like to, you know, do a little meal planning.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh, having never been any better at meal planning than he was at getting out to CrossFit. “Anyway, I was gonna head out to work, if you’re cool here.” He walks around her, drops his lunch in his backpack, picks up his skateboard helmet and his skateboard, the last of which she examines thoughtfully as he heads for the door.

"Is that the skating board that I have heard you and Aubrey discuss previously? It looks very small to ride amongst the automobiles…." Then she grins. "Excellent agility training, very clever, Wayne Newton. Perhaps you shall train me in the art of the skating board."

He chuckles, trying to imagine her in cargo shorts and one of his old Offspring t-shirts. 

"Sure, alright, I'll see if I can scrounge us up another board, we can head over to Saint Francis, scoot around the parking lot. Maybe this weekend, if it don’t rain?”

“I do not mind being out in the rain,” she says, and that thoughtful look comes over her again. “I have been enjoying the experience of winter here, and now coming into spring? How delightful!”

“So long as it’s not too rainy while I’m out tramping around the forest,” he replies, but he knows what she means, and more than that, he thinks maybe it’ll be good to show her the flowers as they come up, the trees leafing out for the spring.

“Have an excellent day in the forest, dear friend,” she says, and she clasps his shoulder as he opens the door. For a second, he thinks  _ fuck it, who even cares about work _ but there’s still a forest to take care of, if they’ll let him, and that duty feels just as meaningful as it ever has.

“See ya tonight, Minnie.”

//

The forest service office looks about the same as always when he gets there; Lucinda’s at the front desk, waiting for the unlikely arrival of hikers and campers. For her sake — maybe for all their sakes — he hopes things pick up as spring comes on. 

“Morning, Duck,” she says, not looking up from whatever weird little game she’s playing on her phone.

“Morning,” he replies. He takes a Jolly Rancher (cherry) out of the bowl on the counter, and pops it in his mouth. Maybe he can do this, get back into the swing of things, back into a routine….

But when he opens the door to the back office, and the conversation all goes abruptly quiet, and all the other rangers are looking at him, well...maybe not so much. There’s more people than he’s seen in a good while, looks like the FBI’s brought down the roadblock, then, if Dan and Josie could get in. But more than that, he recognizes a handful of folks in state forestry uniforms, more than you’d usually see up here, and seems like they were in the conversation more than anybody else.

He mumbles, “Morning,” around the Jolly Rancher, and sets his helmet down on his desk. Several people look at him, nobody quite saying anything; he looks for Juno but she’s not there. The supervisor’s office door is closed, which maybe has something to do with that. Rather than tackling the backlog of reports, he wanders up to the scheduling board.

Finally someone says something, Jerry giving him a nod and asking, “How ya been? Glad to see you’re doing okay after….” And he swallows, sounding as uneasy as Duck feels. “Juno said you, um, were with those folks stopped that….”

“Jeez, Jerry,” says one of the state forest people, “Let him alone, will ya?”

Duck clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck, staring even more intently at the board even as the names listed there become completely incomprehensible.

“It’s cool, I’m just, it’s cool. Where is Juno, anyhow?”

Three different people gesture at the supervisor’s office.

“God, hope she ain’t in trouble,” he says, instinct towards worry jumping to the fore.

Jerry scoffs. “Not fuckin’ likely. Sheriff Owens looked like he was fixing to give her a medal the other morning. Y’all went to school together, yeah?”

Ducks nods.

“She that much of a badass when you were kids?”

Duck thinks of Juno diligently running laps in the morning; sketching leaves and birds in her notebook; spacing out in class; bumming a cigarette before crushing him at improvised roller hockey. Juno in her graduation gown, all set to head off to college, to Chicago, “never coming back, Duck, swear to God.” He laughs.

“Prob’ly more of a badass than I was, but that ain’t saying much.”

Turns out, of course, that she’s going to be up for a promotion, and while there’s some formalities or whatever, it’s pretty much a slam dunk, shuffling around some positions and that’s that. He’s proud of her, good to see the old crew all doing good shit.

After everybody’s settled down, noisy congratulations shared — and he catches a little bit of the tale of how she set up a trap for the monsters — he figures it’s time to get to it.

“We still on the same routes?” he asks, looking up at the big map, still not marked with all the changes from the devastation of Mount Kepler, nor with all the roadblocks.  _ That  _ map was on Juno’s desk, last he saw.

She comes up behind him, saying, “Just gonna drive out into the woods and see what you can scare loose, Duck?”

“Still gotta make sure people are cleaning up after themselves and whatever.”

“All those tourists out there, camping and littering.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Just gonna give me shit, Juno, now that you’re all big and important, or let me do my job?”

“Big and important,” she scoffs. “Who’s talking about being a big deal, now?”

“Shit.” He sees the sparks flying from Beacon’s blade, the motes of light rising up from the destroyed creatures. “Seriously though, FBI still doing the whole roadblock thing or can we actually do our damn jobs?”

“Yeah, they packed up and left yesterday, mostly. I think that Stern fella is sticking around, see if any more weird shit pops off, but they know the score. Ain’t nothing to see in Kepler, I think is how they figure.” She looks at the map too, then at Duck. “Mind if I come with? I got a whole list of places I’m supposed to check off here. Two oughta make it easy work.” She hands him a clipboard as he tosses her a set of truck keys from the wall.

For a while they just ride in silence, over roads they both know without question, stopping at picnic spots and campgrounds, checking off locations without any unnecessary conversation. They pass a roadblock in the middle of being disassembled, a pair of tired-looking agents in windbreakers and khakis loading their equipment into a van. A third agent is looking at either a phone or a GPS device with a deep frown, tapping it in obvious frustration.

“Don’t let the back door hit ya where the good lord split ya,” mutters Juno under her breath.

“Heh, yeah, won’t be sorry to see the last of those guys.”

“About that—” Juno taps a finger on the steering wheel as she turns back up into another ravine. 

“I’m real sorry if we….” After jumping in, Duck doesn’t know how to finish the thought.

“If you  _ what,  _ Duck? How’s the rest of that sentence go, anyhow? I had a lot of fun hanging out last night with you and your, uh,  _ Chosen Club,  _ which is a thing I had to find out about from Sarah fuckin’ Drake who I haven’t seen since high school, same as I heard about all this” — and she’s waving one hand while the other steers them up a narrow road — “from  _ Arlo Thacker?  _ You know the last time I saw Arlo Thacker? Well, it was before he vanished to another planet, that’s for sure.” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Not to mention….” And then she shakes her head. “Damn, Duck, I thought you were  _ bad  _ at lying, and now, I don’t even know.”

A long uncomfortable beat of silence passes between them.

“Listen,” he says finally. “Things just kinda...escalated? Kinda got into the whole...uh...monster hunting thing by, uh, you know, by accident? And then you’re just kinda keeping weird secrets and that’s the sorta thing that kinda escalates on its own power, you know?”

“I have no fucking idea, Duck Newton. That’s not my usual area of expertise, monster hunting and keeping ‘weird secrets’” (somehow she manages to do air quotes while taking a hairpin turn) “so it’s hard for me to say.” 

She pulls up to the observation point by the side of the creek and turns off the truck: there’s a species of birds that overwinters here, and it’s about time to check on their nests. He hands her the clipboard, still waiting for her to finish whatever it is she needs to say. The furrow between her eyebrows is deep, and she lets out another sigh before breaking eye contact and opening the truck door.

She opens her mouth, starts to speak, but stops and instead gets out of the car. He follows her down to the creek; they’re both quiet while they check the area. Spring’s coming along a little early, he thinks, taking a deep breath of the mild air, listening to the rushing of water over rocks. After making note of the wildlife, they do a circuit of the walking trail, and at least it’s cleaner than usual.

They’re under a big cottonwood tree, leaves just starting to bud, and she stops, clipboard at her side. She looks at him, and it’s like she’s recalculating, reassessing something about him. (He tries not to think of that goddamn Reconciliation computer, all its  _ percent certainties. _ ) 

She nods, slowly. “Alright. Alright. I think we’re cool.”

He laughs uneasily. “Glad to hear it.”

“That Minerva really from a whole other planet?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” She taps her pencil against the clipboard. “Alright. And she’s staying here?”

“I guess so. I mean, she’s staying on Earth, anyways, least as far as I know. As for how long she’s, you know, living in my apartment….” He feels twitchy under Juno’s gaze, like he’s one of the birds she’s always sketching. He shrugs. “Not like I’m gonna kick her out, leastwise.”

Juno laughs at that. “Yeah, you might be some kinda Chosen One tough guy or some shit, but she looks like she could kick your ass up the block and twice on Sunday. Not that she would, though.”

Duck starts walking back towards the truck. “How’d you mean?” he asks. Minerva’s never pulled punches with him, in all their sparring, except to keep from actually cutting him up with that sword. Still, he’s ended up taking some hits that would have bruised the hell out of anyone else.

Juno laughs again. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the Green Bank Telescope website for [a map of WV that highlights the location of the telescope](https://i0.wp.com/greenbankobservatory.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/gettinghereArtboard-1@2x.png?resize=1024%2C1017&ssl=1).
> 
> I have no idea how staffing works at Forest Service ranger stations, but then again, I'm pretty sure Justin doesn't either, so I'm equally making wild guesses. Also, kind of a trip to think of Duck just _going to work_ during that two month period of the roadblocks, huh? What the hell?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a LOT longer than I intended. Life has a funny way of just kinda _happening_ sometimes.

Duck takes the stairs up to his apartment two at a time with his skateboard under his arm. He's got that time ingrained in him, after all these months: 6:15 pm, sharp. And he's running late, because after driving all over with Juno, he came back to that same dang pile of paperwork on his desk. 

He doesn't want to be late, he doesn't want to…. Disappoint her? That's a curious concept. But the place is empty, excepting Cat (formally named MC Skat Cat, but usually just Cat), who is yowling up a storm. Which means either he's hungry, or he wants attention. Either way, no Minerva.

Just as he's wondering where the heck she's gotten herself off to, his phone buzzes. It's Barclay's number, but the messages read in quick succession:

WAYNE NEWTOB 

I MEAN WAYNE NEWTON 

I HAVE BORROWED THIS DEVICE    
FROM BARCLAY

HE HAS INVITED US FOR DINNER

AND ALSO WE CAN TRAIN HERE    
TONIGHT 

I HAVE CONTACTED LEO TARKESIAN    
TO DRIVE YOU TO THE AMNESTY    
LODGE

D9CTOR SARAH DRAKE WILL ALSO    
BE JOINING US 

I HOPE THIS IS ALL RIGHT FOR YOU 

SEE YOU SOON 

BARCLAY SAYS IT IS CUWTOMARY    
TO END WITH A TEXT    
REPRESENTATION OF A SMILE

:) 

He chuckles, imagining the intensity in Minerva's eyes as she tapped out the message. 

He starts to type  _ Hey _ but that feels weird somehow. It's odd, getting a message from her without her voice, though it sure is like her, the way she texts. 

Sounds good. I'll go over to    
Leo's, see you in a few 👍

He puts the phone in his pocket, hangs up his helmet to get ready to go. The phone buzzes again. 

I HAD TO ASK BARCLAY ABOUT    
THE TINY PICTOGRAM AND    
😀😁😂🤣    
THWRE ARE SO MANT KINDS OF    
SMILES WAYNE NEWTON 😍

Yeah I guess. More than when    
I got my first phone

Barclay says it is not usual to type in all    
capital letters and he is not sure hpw I turned    
on that feature

It's fine

Somehow, the all caps just seemed right, and he's almost a little sad Barclay corrected her. Even if probably she does need to know. Probably needs her own phone, he realizes, then mutters  _ one thing at a time.  _

Hey, it's Barclay, anything special you    
want for dinner? 

Can't think of anything, tell    
Minnie we'll be there in a bit 

The phone doesn't buzz again, although he almost wishes it would. And then he doesn’t really have the extra mental space for it, what with Leo driving up the sketchy little dirt road carved into the hill alongside the slide from the ruin of Mount Kepler. He really could have walked, probably, but instead he’s gripping the car door while Leo drives way too fast up what is not exactly a road.

And then past the resorts, and another jaw-clattering bit of dirt road. When they pull up to the Lodge, scattering gravel as Leo brakes too hard for Duck’s tastes, Sarah’s motorbike is already parked out front. She and Minerva are training on the patchy lawn, with what looks like closet rods instead of swords; Mama’s in her chair on the porch, and Stern sitting on the front step, watching intently. Duck jumps out almost before the car comes to a full stop; Minerva swivels on her heel to wave at him, and Sarah gets in a good hit on her shoulder.

“Excellent capitalizing on my distraction, Doctor Sarah Drake!” she says with a fierce grin, moving to knock Sarah off balance and into the damp grass. Duck walks over to help her up, but finds himself set upon by Minerva. Only a quick twist to one side keeps him from being knocked across Sarah’s prone form and into the grass himself. He glances at Sarah, who gives a little nod, and the two of them together flip Minerva by the ankles.

She lands hard, and for a second, he’s afraid it’s gone too far, but after a sharp exhale she starts guffawing.

“You alright, ‘Nerva?” he says, now the only one standing.

“Wayne Newton, I am positively delighted. To see you and another Chosen One, working in tandem, I could never have imagined—” And a shadow passes over her face, quick as a summer storm. He wonders about who she trained with, and and all those lost souls of her world. But then the beatific smile again, as she hops up and brushes off the dirt and bits of grass before reaching a hand out to Sarah.

“Okay, ‘nough of that,” says Mama, without getting out of her chair. “Barclay’s gonna have some food up soon and you can horse around after.”

“It’s serious business, not just horsing around, Miz Cobb,” says Sarah, with an undercurrent of barely suppressed laughter. “I just don’t know how ‘Nerva here has so much dang energy, looks like she’s been doing construction all day.”

He looks at her again, and takes in the streak of drywall dust across one cheek, the stippling of paint on her shirt and shorts — Mama looks similarly grimy, but with a smile of weary satisfaction.

“I guess they really did put you to work, huh? Little different then being, uh, some kinda mystic knight of something something?”

“It is a great honor to be part of the rebuilding after the battle is over.” Her gaze is thoughtful, and Duck finds himself having a hard time meeting it. “It is a gift to have something to rebuild, and dear friends to rebuild it with.”

“Yeah.” Nothing he can say will properly acknowledge the enormity of what she’s lost.

“Also, Madeline says that she can pay me beneath the table, although I am not sure why it is important in what location the currency is exchanged.”

“ _ Under _ the table, Minerva,” says Mama, with a wry chuckle. “We’ll get you some proper paperwork some point, this ain’t my first rodeo setting up  _ extremely  _ undocumented aliens. But I do appreciate the extra hands in the meantime.”

Barclay comes out onto the porch, and with him, the wafting smell of meatloaf. Before he can even say anything, everyone files up the stairs and into the lodge — Duck, Minerva, Sarah, Leo, and Mama all following him into the otherwise nearly empty dining hall. Moira floats through a freshly-repaired wall, still talking to Jake Coolice as he walks through a doorway whose doorway still lists to one side.

They all step around bagged up construction debris, the front desk covered in old dust and new drywall fragments, push aside a hastily tacked up dropcloth curtain. The hall itself is the old square tables pushed together into a long single table, since there’s no guests, only these few remaining, these friends and the permanent residents of the Lodge. Duck wonders about the Sylphs stuck now on this side of the arch, even less hope of return than before. Although, looking between Barclay and Stern, he figures those still here are doing pretty alright, least now that they’re back near the spring.

Everybody digs in to dinner eagerly, overlapping conversations ebbing and flowing as they eat. Sarah’s glad to get back to the telescope, she says, now that the feds have bugged out.  _ I  _ was _ doing actual research,  _ she says with a roll of her eyes, complaining about road closures keeping out the grad students. Leo’s been arguing with the insurance folks again about whether the sign crashing into the store was actually an act of God.

“Act of Ned,” says Barclay with a laugh, and for a second there’s a hush over the gathering, until Mama mutters  _ ‘bout the furthest damn thing from God  _ and Leo responds  _ didn’t have Ned insurance  _ and the moment passes.

Into the silence Stern offers a compliment to Barclay’s potatoes, which apparently restarts some ancient argument amongst the long-time Lodge folks about mashed versus crispy potatoes, particularly at Thanksgiving.  _ ‘Long as it ain’t like that time Thacker brought Potato Buds,  _ says Mama, chuckling, and Barclay groans while Jake laughs as if having heard the story for the hundredth time.

“Potato buds?” asks Minerva, leaning over to ask Duck while everyone else is talking. “Like the young plants?”

“Heck no, plants are actually poisonous,” he replies, and she recoils, staring down in horror at the roasted cubes on her plate. “Yeah, nightshades are pretty weird, but at least the tasty bits are tasty. Naw, Potato Buds are like a….” He looks at the others. “How would y’all describe Potato Buds to ‘Nerva?”

Barclay just grimaces, and Mama snorts.

“Goddamn travesty,” says Sarah.

“Kind of a miracle of food science, bud, and for some of the folks in this town, you know, you got a passel of kids, gotta get ‘em fed somehow,” counters Leo.

Stern regards Minerva coolly and curiously. “Potato Buds are a, well, I think they might be freeze-dried?” He pushes his glasses up before continuing. “Basically, shelf-stable mashed potatoes, just add water, sometimes milk and butter. Depends on the brand. They are an inexpensive form of calories, certainly.”

Barclay stares at Stern in what appears to be horror. “ _ Joseph. _ ”

“That’s what they are, that’s what the lady was asking. Didn’t say they were good. Certainly not this—” And he spears another hunk of potato with his fork, takes a bite, lets out a little sigh. 

“I’ll allow it,” Barclay responds with a gentle smile.

Minerva glances at Duck; there’s still a question in her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Bringing ‘em to Thanksgiving, though, that’s a real  _ fox pass _ ,” says Duck. “Doesn’t surprise me Thacker would’a, though.”

“On this ‘Thanksgiving’ it is of particular importance to eat foods that are not pre-manufactured?” she asks. “Because ordinarily it seems to me that you often eat things of this nature, Wayne Newton.”

“Well, shit, Minnie, you ain’t gotta call me out like that,” but he laughs, because she’s not wrong.

“She’s got ya number, for sure,” says Leo; “I seen ya grocery shopping a few years now, Duck — ya ain’t exactly a gourmet chef.”

“Oh my god Duck,” gasps Sarah. She looks sternly at Minerva. “You have  _ got _ to tell me, he still eat like he did when he was 16?”

“I did not know Wayne Newton quite that young…” she replies, glancing at him. He buries his face in his hands. She pauses, and he’s not looking, but he’s pretty sure she’s having another bite of dinner. Her voice is lower than he’s ever heard it, when she speaks again. “Where I was living in the ruins of Miralivinax Orbital Body 5, I lived for many years on these sorts of...what did you call them, Joseph Stern? Shelf stabilized? Foods that one might eat when there are no crops to be harvested, no mills or slaughterhouses, no grocery stores like Leo Tarkesian’s, no one to cook….”

He looks up, then, and her eyes are dark — no tears, but she’s staring past them through the dining hall windows, out into the forest. She lets out a slow breath and then offers a smile that’s a weak facsimile of her usual grin. 

Duck clears his throat. “Well, if’n you want to try to, uh, learn how to cook, guess I’m game, get us something a little better than mac and cheese or, you know, frozen fried rice.”

Her smile broadens to something more sincere, and she rests a hand on top of his. It’s warm, grounding.

“I am delighted by the prospect of experiencing many different kinds of Earth foods, Wayne Newton.”

“You ever heard of French Onion Soup?” he asks, struck by the need to take her to Wolf Ember immediately, to see her joy at one of his favorite things. 

Mama mutters  _ We gotta get this one to stop saying ‘Earth’ like that  _ as the conversation picks back up around them.

Minerva is looking at him, the hint of a question in the crook of her brow that doesn’t go away when she says, “Tell me of this soup.”

“Shit, ‘Nerva, I dunno if it’s something I can really talk about. Hell, maybe we’ll go out to Wolf Ember tomorrow, if….” He feels odd, taking up her time, when really shouldn’t she be figuring out her own way in her new life? “If that’s alright by you?”

“I would be delighted, Wayne Newton! We will go to the Wolf Ember, and eat soup!” She squeezes his hand. When she lets go to continue eating, he finds himself wishing she hadn’t.  _ Don’t be an ass,  _ he thinks to himself, and forces himself to pay attention to Barclay talking about the work he’s got planned for tomorrow. Minerva jumps into that discussion, asking about roof repair and the structural integrity of the lodge, more things he didn’t realize she knew anything about, but of course she does.

She’s drawing a sketch on a napkin and gesturing up into the rafters, saying, “We also had a number of dome-shaped buildings and I learned how to maintain them when—” The pause lasts for only a second but he’s painfully aware of it. “You need to make sure the cross-bracing is stable before you work on the skin of the building, but I am sure with all of us working together we’ll be very successful!”

Sarah looks around the hall. “Be nice when you get this all cleaned up, get a few more guests, maybe some out of towners? Once it gets on into summer, be real nice.”

“Now that you’re not harboring interstellar fugitives, really put that hot spring on the map,” adds Stern with a chuckle. Duck notices his hand reaching for Barclay’s, and yup, alright, that settles that.

“Yeah, I think we might could do that,” says Mama. She lets out a sigh with a rueful smile. “Time for the next phase of things, I guess.”

Leo raises a glass. “Here’s to the next phase of things.” He nods as glasses clink all around the table.

“Here’s to getting back to some good work,” says Sarah; then she tilts her head and looks at Minerva. “Hey, we haven’t ever talked about it, but like, your home orbits a star maybe I could find with the telescope, yeah?”

Minerva is uncharacteristically speechless at Sarah’s question.

“I guess it is out there somewhere, ain’t it?” says Leo.

“Okay, okay, hold on, hold on—” And Stern leans across the table to look more closely again at Minerva. “I get that Barclay, and Dani, Jake, Moira, all those folks were from another world, this Sylvain, but Minerva…. You are  _ also _ actually a space alien?”

“You don’t gotta say it like that,” says Duck, a burst of defensiveness in his chest. 

“It is a reasonable question, Joseph Stern; Earth is not exactly accustomed to interstellar communications, and to be honest, neither were we. It is….”

“They had a rough time, with the, uh, whole reconciliation thing,” interjects Duck.

“That is true, Wayne Newton, although remarkably understated. Still, the story is perhaps not appropriate for this venue, and I am not proud of my part in the matter.” She looks to Sarah. “Since I was able to use the facilities of the Green Bank Telescope to locate yourself and Wayne Newton, perhaps we can—”

“Okay, hold on, wait,” says Mama. “Before we start talking ‘bout using a major scientific facility to help Minerva here figure out where her home went to, I gotta— Duck, Duck, I mean— Your ma actually, seriously—”

Sarah snickers. “Yeah she did.”

_ “Fuck.”  _ He looks at Minerva, and he wants to be mad, a little bit, honest he does, but he just can’t be. “I been going by Duck since, well, about as long as I can remember, and I had a moment of — I dunno, sense of fuckin’ grandeur or something, and I guess now everybody knows what a weirdo Mom is. So that’s cool.”

“It is a perfectly fine name, Wayne Newton, although if you would rather I—”

He waves her off. “Naw, it’s fine, although I’d rather that not be a thing generally, if you all take my meaning.”

“I’ve been calling you Duck since, fuck, 1993 or some shit, I’d feel weird doing the other,” says Sarah, and the others are all nodding in agreement.

“All right, well then we’re cool.”

“Tell your ma I saw him live in Vegas, back in the seventies, hell of a performer,” says Leo. He looks at Minerva with a twinkle in his eye. “You ought ask Duck to look around on YouTube, find some performances. Good stuff, a little cliche, but the ladies love that.”

Mama laughs. “Leo, ladies haven’t loved that in thirty goddamn years.”

And so whatever moment, whatever awkwardness was on the verge of happening with the talk of Minerva’s home world — all the goofing on his name seems to have let that pass. It’s not often he’s thankful for the name his mom cursed him with, but maybe today he might be. And when Minerva says it, there’s no goofing, no dumb associations with cheesy lounge singers. Which is pretty nice; he’ll allow it.

Eventually dinner winds up, and dessert, and everyone’s out on the front step of the lodge under the curving portico saying goodnight, now that it’s too dark for more sparring. Sarah takes off on her motorcycle; Leo offers Duck and Minerva a ride, but if he’s being honest, he’s none too thrilled at the idea of holding on for dear life as Leo tries that drive again downhill in the dark.

“I’m good with walking,” and he looks up at Minerva, “if’n it’s okay with ‘Nerva.”

“I would be delighted to take a postprandial stroll down the hill to your apartment, Wayne Newton.”

“Alright then, I guess we’ll be post-prandialing along now.”

Barclay says, “See you tomorrow, Minerva?”

“Absolutely!” And she clasps his hand in hers, so heartily that even Barclay winces a little. “I am thrilled to offer my help!”

The two of them fall into a companionable silence walking down the long gravel drive of the Lodge, then past the still boarded-up hotels of Topside, stepping around bits and pieces of detritus abandoned by the FBI. 

When they get to the carved-in road, he stumbles for a moment on a loose rock in the dim light. Minerva reaches for his elbow as he rights himself. Duck clears his throat, tries to mutter  _ thanks.  _ He’s tense, for a moment, but she doesn’t say anything, just walks beside him, steadying, her arm in his.

He lets out a long sigh, and she makes a little questioning sound, not her usual big interjection but something more subtle. They walk in the dark a little while longer until he finally says, “You sure this is…? You know, just doing construction or whatever at the Lodge? Ain’t like you gotta feel obligated, just ‘cause….”  _ Just because they’re my friends.  _ As he thinks that, he realizes that even with Aubrey gone and Ned dead (which, he still can’t quite wrap his head around that one), the Lodge folks are about as close friends as he’s got around here now, them and, well — Minerva herself.

“Wayne Newton.” The way she says his name is like a gentle reprimand, almost without any other words needed. “As I have stated previously, it is a gift and an honor to join in a rebuilding.”

“Lotta places you could go,” he says.

“That is perhaps true,” she says, and then is quiet for a long moment as they navigate another stretch of torn-up road. The streetlights of the lower town are visible now; they’re almost back at the apartment. “I do not know that I…. This, rebuilding here, being near—” When he glances at her, she’s looking down at the town, the tiny place where he’s spent nearly his whole life. To him, it seems too small for her, for the enormity of her experience; he can’t tell what she thinks of it. “It is not an obligation, Wayne Newton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters should be coming a bit quicker now; I have an outline for the next chapter, which helps.
> 
> Also, please enjoy this [1983 bootleg of Wayne Newton performing his most famous song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GY8HnjvAt3w). (I also found this [duet with Glenn Campbell from 1975](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwTgjc5S2r4) oddly charming. Imagine this guy when you wonder what Duck's mom was thinking.)
> 
> Also also, I really did have a friend who once brought Potato Buds to a Thanksgiving.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva’s dream activates something unexpected. A cheesy movie sparks a conversation deeper than it deserves. And then, sleep.

Between the good meal and the walk, Duck falls asleep pretty much right away, no need for the white noise app, the one he started using when he lost his connection to Minerva and the anxiety of everything going on was too much. But on this night, it’s just one deep breath, roll onto his side, curl up against the pillow, and out like a light.

When he wakes, it’s not from a bad dream, exactly: all he remembers is little fragments of walking? Somewhere? Something about being in a place where the air's real dry, is what he would’ve said if anybody asked. But what actually wakes him is Cat jumping up on the bed and flopping down on the feet, which means she's pushed open the door, because she’s still not really used to the door even being closed.

But that wouldn’t be much, really: he's had that cat a while, and they've done that little dance, where she jumps up, they shift places, she finds a spot around his feet. Back to sleep for both of them. 

This time, though, he's rolling over, and there's a light in the other room. At first he figures it's just Minerva up reading; he's noticed, these last months, that her circadian rhythms are a bit wonky. Light's blue, though, and he doesn't own a lamp like that, but something about that color’s real familiar.... 

"Minnie, ya alright?" 

There's no response. Duck lets out a long sigh and pushes himself out of bed. He drags a hand through his hair. 

"'Nerva, what's up?" 

Her spectral blue form stands in the front room, rays of white moonlight and yellow streetlight cutting through the familiar silhouette. Even as indistinct as she is, he can tell she's trembling. 

“Duck Newton! Duck Newton?” Her voice, coming from her projected form, is as strident as ever, but he hears a tinge of desperation in it. His head reverberates with the sound. “Leo Tarkesian? Doctor Sarah Drake? I cannot— There is something— The signal—” For a moment, her figure flickers in moonlight and streetlight. “Wayne?”

“Minerva?”

Then he hears a thrashing from her room — the guest room — then a wordless shout that comes from both that room and the projection at once. He opens the door and she’s curled up in a ball in his extra blankets. She’s shaking, and when he glances back into the other room, the projection is vibrating before dissolving entirely when he puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Minerva, come on, wake up.” She’s shuddering, but as far as he can tell she’s still asleep. He touches her gingerly, lightly, like a bird startled from running into a window. “‘Nerva, hey, hey, come on.” He shakes her shoulder, gently, not wanting to startle her, and she shudders again, but this time uncurling a little, and she takes a uneasy breath.

“I am sorry, Wayne Newton,” she says into the pillow, “if I have disturbed your nightly rest.”

“Sheesh,” he replies. “Don’t gotta be like that. Anything bad enough you, uh, activated your whole blue man group thing…. As a friend, you know, if you gotta talk about it…. It’s no big, cat woke me up anyhows.”

Another trembling breath.

“Alright, well, I guess I’m awake  _ now,  _ so, uh, you know, if you want to watch some shows or something with me, don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Sometimes it’s good to just, yeah.”

He stands to give her a little space, and she rolls over and sits up. There’s a bit of red around her vivid blue eyes.

“You know where to find me if you want to, I’ll just be, I’ll put something on, cool?”

“Thank you, Wayne Newton,” she says with a little incline of her head, almost the formality of a bow.

//

He’s scrolling aimlessly through thumbnails of videos when she comes out, blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. She settles in on the couch next to him without a word, watching as he keeps looking at and moving past one show after another. He pauses for a moment.

“That is the Highlander of whom you and your friends have spoken?” she asks.

He sighs. Indeed, that it is, the sharp-edged lettering, a man’s face lit up by a lightning bolt.

“It appears to be a very dramatic filmed entertainment, if the tiny preview image is to be believed.”

“Well, I guess. It’s kind of a, well, always thought of it as like, you know, a sword guy thing?”

“Were you not a guy with a sword?! Was this also your  _ thing?” _

He lets out a sigh.

“Yeah, I guess that’s true enough. I was, in fact, a guy with a sword, although that’s really not quite same as a sword guy.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know if I have the— It’d take a longass time to explain, and I’d probably do it wrong. Anyhow, you wanna watch? It ain’t good, but then, if you can’t watch a shitty movie at 2 am when the hell are you gonna?”

And if he’s being honest, he hasn’t seen that dang movie since, well since VHS on his folks’ VCR, probably before he went off to college, rented from the video store inside the pharmacy-slash-stationary store. It hasn’t aged great, exactly, and that’s even given it wasn’t a new movie when he watched it. 

But Minerva seems to be having fun, critiquing the sword fight in the parking garage, her body moving almost unconsciously to follow her words, then full of inquiries about the nature of policing. _ I do not believe Joseph Stern would approve of these investigatory techniques, _ she says.  _ Yeah, I’m pretty sure even Deputy Dewey could do better than this,  _ he replies. 

It takes her a minute to work out the whole flashback concept, but once she does, she jumps into a full-fledged commentary of those battle techniques too. It’s fun, he thinks, watching her get excited about things.

//

When Connery shows up and starts training the Highlander, she falls silent: her eyes flick back and forth between the two actors. As they watch the training montage, he thinks uncomfortably of all the times she appeared to him, back when he was a kid, and how ambivalent he was, and what if he’d done it differently?

The splash of the guy falling into the water startles him out of his thoughts, and he jumps a little in his spot on the couch. Then he realizes Minerva’s looking at him, concern written on her features.

“Wayne Newton, did I train you adequately?”

“How’d you mean?”

She points at the screen, the actor seeming to walk under the water, with what’s probably intended to be a look of either horror or wonder on his face, though he’s not really enough of an actor to tell either way.

“The elder swordsman, the Spaniard? Egyptian?”

He grimaces. “Yeah, that guy isn’t really either of those, but I get ya. What about him?”

“He seems an unkind mentor, and I…. I meant only to prepare you for the dangers that I believed—” She lets out a breath, shaking her head. “The dangers that I myself had faced, and so poorly. Is it a hazard of that experience? To be unnecessarily harsh?”

“You did alright, Minnie, considering.” He doesn’t know how to reassure her. “I mean, you were doing all that from halfway ‘cross the universe, and with my dumb ass besides.”

“I believe now that you were wiser than either of us knew, Wayne Newton. Perhaps your caution, your care for other creatures…. Would that I had had such care, my friend.”

“Mostly care for my own skin, if we’re being honest. Plus it ain’t like carrying swords was much of a thing, round here, didn’t seem like I’d have a whole lot of need for it…” He misses Beacon, that unnerving jackass, and isn’t that buckwild? He’s aware of Minerva watching him, then, though she doesn’t say anything.

//

As they watch Sean Connery and Christopher Lambert walk through the set of a Renaissance Faire, she says, “He says that the immortals may not have children. Does this mean that there are no women amongst these beings, or are the women also sterile?” It’s not her first comment about women in this movie, and Duck grimaces and lets out a sigh.

“Uh.” Duck scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, I guess…. They didn’t think too much about that, I guess. Sometimes, y’know, you dig too deep into that uhhhh backstory and it all gets a little weird. Pretty sure the TV show got into some stuff, but it’s been about a hundred years since I seen it.”

“Wayne Newton, you were still a youth when first I encountered you, and that was not much more than twenty of your years ago. Are you saying that you were a youth for….” She tilts her head with a frown. “Eighty years? And also, the text information on this video series said it was produced in….” She laughs, then, a sharp bark that draws a sleepy smile from him as well. “This is a joke, to say that you saw it one hundred years ago!”

“Well, more like a humorous exaggeration, but yeah.”

She pushes him with her shoulder, and when he looks at her, she’s grinning, and for a second he just grins back, like a damn fool.

“So yeah, maybe we’ll watch and see what kind of dumbass bullshit they came up with to explain all that.” He pauses: why is he thinking about introducing her to terrible TV, when she’s got a whole damn world to explore? “Or not, whatever.”

//

They’re watching Connery and the mortal gal when her attention finally wavers for a moment. “I did not realize that I still had the power of projecting a light-based form,” she says. “I had to use complex equipment to contact my Chosen Ones, and all of that was destroyed with the rest of the— and I am not sure that I understand….”

“Maybe something about how you came through—” He taps his forehead.

“Perhaps, Wayne Newton. Even with all my years of experience, there are still many mysteries of the universe that I am still coming to understand.”

“Well, it’s a weird ol’ world, that’s for sure.”

She takes a deep breath. “I was dreaming….” And she pauses, takes another breath.

“It’s fine, you don’t gotta….”

She shakes her head, a fierce frown animating her features, lit by the glow of the television screen. “I thought my equipment had been destroyed again after I had repaired it, that I had been returned to that place, and the dust storm, the dry cold was so strong, I could not—”

Lightning crackles on the screen as the Kurgan lumbers into the frame. Her frown deepens as she glances at Duck and then back at the television.

“I was afraid that I would never see you again, Wayne Newton, that your battle was lost as mine had been, and that all our worlds had been separated again.”

“Yeah, I could see where that would be a whole thing….” He grimaces. Every word out of his mouth feels totally useless, nothing to what she’s been through.

“Thank you.” She says it so softly he almost doesn’t hear it, and then looks back at the television. In a voice more like her usual tone, she exclaims, “Ah, this is how he acquired the scar upon his neck! It is connected to the Highlander and their intertwined stories!”

Duck feels a bit of the tension fade as Minerva leans forward to watch the battle. She frowns when the girl screams, shakes her head, and then she laughs as chunks of styrofoam wall explode outward as Connery and the Kurgan fight.

“This is a very poor piece of construction if it cannot hold up against even a brief combat. Is all of Scots Land built in this way?”

“Naw, it’s just a set, guess they figured it looked all magical to have ‘em destroy a fuckin’ castle?”

She taps her finger against her chin, her expression fierce with concentration. “What else is done for this sort of storytelling effect versus what one might expect oneself to do in a similar situation?”

The sword pushes through Sean Connery, and lightning flashes again, and the stairs to nowhere collapse into a heap of fake stone.

“How’d you mean?”

She points at the screaming girl in the ruins, and as the scene returns to the eighties, says, “Why did they not prepare her? Perhaps she was not an immortal, but she could have been trained as an ordinary warrior, surely? Why did the man in the fancy clothes not press the fight, if he was the swordmaster? He had his sword to the large man’s throat and he could have used his small size to his advantage in so many ways! Was he not prepared to take the same actions he prepared his student to face?” She lets out a sigh of annoyance, a sound he recognizes from all the times he evaded her training. “Is that man, the villain, is he the only one who is concerning himself with their prophecy?”

Duck is at a loss for words, and just makes a noise that maybe approximates that he doesn’t even know to start with all that.

Then she turns on the couch, shifting so that she’s facing him, looking at him with an intensity that has him squirming. The blanket slides off of her shoulders

“The villain, this Kurgan, he has a ruthlessness of purpose, a pure focus, that I have always associated with my own calling, and how I expected my Chosen to behave, and perhaps….”

“Ah, Minnie, you were dealing with some real-ass shit, and this is just a movie…. Ain’t even like they couldn’t’a all just kept on being immortal or whatever.” The sound of gunfire erupts from the screen, the actor laughing uproariously as a movie Nazi tumbles to the ground. “We might’a disagreed about, uh, I guess a lot of stuff, don’t mean you’re the villain.”

She hums thoughtfully. “I have much to atone for, I think, Wayne Newton.” Her tone brooks no argument, and he doesn’t offer any. He still hasn’t quite wrapped his head around all of it, if he’s being honest.

“I assume based on the narrative formula that this Kurgan will be defeated by the Highlander in a test of swordsmanship.” 

Duck lets out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, I guess it’s pretty formulaic.”

“It provides a great satisfaction, to know that revenge will be had, and the wicked to be punished.”

“Well sure.”

She frowns at the screen again.

“This is not the ordinary way of things, though.”

He takes a deep breath. He’s not even sure what’s “ordinary” anymore. He remembers their conversation, right before he thought she’d been taken out by an asteroid, and the word sits ugly and heavy on his heart: genocide, he’d called it, and there’s no taking that back.

“You talking about crime and punishment, ‘Nerva?”

She shakes her head. “I do not know, Wayne Newton. I am still considering…. A great many things.”

Just as she says that, the movie switches back to Ye Olde Scotland, and the soaring tones of Freddy Mercury’s voice as the characters gently montage through to the one girl’s old age. He glances at Minerva, her bright eyes focused on the screen, the swirls of blue on her forehead and cheeks. Just a little bit of laugh lines at the corner of her eyes, and for the first time he really wonders how old she is really, and is that math the same if she was on another planet orbiting another star, and wait, is that actually how relativity even works?

This is why he dropped out of college physics, he thinks to himself, once he realized he didn’t need it to get his degree. Too fucking complicated.

He thinks of his mom, scolding him when he was a kid,  _ don’t ask that lady how old she is,  _ and flicking his ear. He gives a little sympathetic wince in memory, then with a twinge of guilt looks away from her, just in time for the girl’s deathbed scene.

He hears Minerva take a breath, like she’s about to say something too, but instead she sinks back into the couch without a word, only the faintest of sighs.

//

The cop exclaims, “Don't say anything about sword fights in New York City or guys glowing in the dark for God's sake,” and while the movie’s gotten more tedious than he remembers, that gets a good chuckle out of Duck, and he elbows Minerva in the side. But when he turns to make a joke about her and Leo, Duck realizes she’s fallen asleep.

At first he tries to say something to wake her up, but there’s something about the way her features are relaxed, maybe for the first time he’s seen them since she came to Earth…. He doesn’t want to disturb that. He puts an arm around her so he can get at the blanket that had fallen off of her shoulders. She’s warm, and breathing steady and even, and she makes a little murmuring noise, maybe a word in a language he doesn’t know. He pulls the blanket around her shoulders, rearranges the sofa cushions so hopefully she won’t get a crick in her neck.

He glances around the front room, and on the armchair spots a blanket his granny crocheted, some really quality seventies colors on that one, and Cat sleeping on it. With one hand he scoops up the cat, the other grabbing the blanket, which he drapes over Minerva in her pjs. Cat gets gently set down beside her, and he mutters, “you better be good, bud.”

Cat mrrps softly, kneading the corner of blanket that falls onto the couch for just a moment before curling back up, his head pressed against Minerva’s leg.

“Alright then,” Duck says as he stops the movie and turns off the TV. For a moment he lingers, Minerva’s breathing the only sound in the apartment. The cat makes another little sound and looks up at him, blinking sleepily. “Good night,” he says, not sure if he’s talking to the cat or to Minerva, before he heads back to his own bed for a few more hours rest before his alarm.

As he drifts off to sleep, her soft snoring still echoing in his head, the last thought he has is that he almost wishes he were sleeping out there with her on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn’t seen Highlander in a WHILE, y’all, and it’s goofy as hell. Honestly, I couldn’t figure out a good way to have them talk about that whack ending; maybe they will later, but for now: sleep. Also, all I want now is a Minerva (and GOD, Beacon) commentary track for Highlander.
> 
> Thanks to @hops for the discussion of Minerva and dreams, and for well…….. Let’s just say being more of an inspiration for this fic than I was ready to cop to initially. XD
> 
> Thanks also to the DUCKNERVA SERVER, for just being a bunch of excitable weirdos. It’s good to have a crew for this.
> 
> I am TRYING to write more regularly, honest, life is just a lot right now. But I do have some ideas queued up if I can thread them together, and at least I’ve STARTED the next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for soup! Duck remembers a friend; Minerva asks a question about nomenclature.

Duck fully figures she’ll still be conked out on the sofa when he gets up, but when he stumbles out of his room, he hears Minerva’s laugh boom out through the whole apartment. Not at him, no, she’s laughing as she dangles a cat toy just above Cat’s nose. She twitches the stick so that the little bundle of feathers jumps, and Cat jumps with it.

“Aubrey was right!” she exclaims. “This is delightful fun, Wayne Newton, keeping your little feline in good training!”

“Yeah. He probably needs to get played with more, I suppose.” Duck pauses in the doorway, still not quite getting his brain in gear. He runs his hand down his face, scratches his chin, yawns again. “I’mma, yeah,” and he points at the bathroom. “'Less you wanna get a shower afore I do?”

“I have already had my morning ablutions, Wayne Newton, so you may consider the shower entirely yours.”

“Cool, cool, cool,” and he starts that way, but he’s surprised when she drops the cat toy and strides over to him. Neither of them have been much for hugging, really, so he’s even more startled when that’s exactly what she does. “You, uh, you good, Minnie?” he asks, face half-buried in her shoulder.

“Thank you for waking me last night, and thank you for…” She hesitates for a breath. “...all your kindness.

“Friends, yeah?” he says, cautiously, and feels her relax against him. 

“It is an honor to be your  _ friend _ , Wayne Newton,” and there’s something in that emphasis that, he can’t quite put his finger on it, but he’s glad he can be there for her, even if it seems ridiculous that she would value him that way.

He clears his throat and pats her back awkwardly. “Well, yeah, I…. Yeah.”

She straightens back to her usual alert posture, giving him an answering — if much more vigorous — pat on the back. “Do not let me keep you from your morning routine,” she says with a hint of a smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, gotta get my ass to work.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You still plannin’ on spending the day up at the lodge?”

“I believe that Barclay and Madeline Cobb can still make use of my assistance.”

“Alright, alright, cool, how are you feeling about a little outing after, get some soup? Maybe I can scoot out a little early….” He pauses to think. “Shit, I’mma need a service truck, probably, if we’re gonna…. Alright, alright. Yeah. Take a extra….” He looks at her, trying to figure out if there’s even any clothes in the whole dang apartment that would be suitable for going out someplace nice like Wolf Ember Grill. “Well fuck. I guess we’ll just.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Just throw some clean something or other in a bag and it’s fine, if they throw us out it’s whatever. I’m sure Mama’ll let you use one of the empty rooms to grab a shower.”

When he looks at her, she’s staring at him in obvious bewilderment. He laughs uneasily.

“What I’m thinking is, after I get off work, I could take you to get that French onion soup like I was talking about last night, but it’s kind of a fancy place, so I’m gonna have to take some slacks or something, and you’d wanna at least get cleaned up after doing construction shit all day….”

“This is acceptable, Wayne Newton, I would very much like to experience this French onion soup, and I will ask Madeline Cobb if I may make use of the facilities in her lodging.”

He lets out a little sigh. “Cool. That’s set, then.”

In the shower, he plots out his day, grabbing a shower crayon to jot down things to add to his grocery list: milk, cat food, peanut butter. Next to his usual list spot are some of Minerva’s sketches, intriguing little doodles that he hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask about, if they’re something from back home, just some abstract shit, maybe it’s some kind of fancy math from where she’s from. He’s gotten to like seeing them, although he sorta misses the way Aubrey used to add speech bubbles with greetings in them. 

He sighs as he dunks his hair in the shower spray. At first, when the complex and his apartment were suddenly full of folks and he hardly had a second to himself, he kind of hated it. He's not ever been one to have people around all the time. But now, feels weird with Aubrey and Dani and them gone, and if ‘Nerva were to take a thought to go on out somewhere else, as he figures she’s gonna at some point…. He hears her in the other room singing tunelessly at the cat, a song he doesn’t know, although he’s not sure if it’s something from her home world or something she heard from Aubrey. It’s louder than the sound of either shower or bathroom fan, and it would be awful strange to have it quiet again.

//

Work’s easier than the day before — technically he supposes most folks would say it was a harder day, being as how he was walking up and down the hollers measuring and counting, reviewing his old records, checking on notable trees. But at least there’s no talking, nobody there to ask him about what all happened two days ago, or two months ago, or who is or isn’t living in his apartment, or most importantly: how he feels about any of it. Trees are easier, don’t ask questions, don’t try to “figure him out”; they’re just there, growing, doing their own thing, and he’s there to make sure they keep doing it.

Good rhythm to get back to, and he about loses track of time in it, when as he’s checking on the big tree growing out of a building in one of the ghost towns in the hollers, he notices that the sun is about gone from the crest of the hill.

“Well shit,” he says aloud to the trees and critters, “better get a move on,” and he barrels through the woods in the service truck, stopping at his place just long enough to shuck off his uniform and throw on some slacks and flannel. (He glances at the suit jacket that’s about all he’s got for weddings and funerals, last worn for the service or whatever that was at the Cryptonomica, but decides that’s probably not necessary.) “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he tells the cat as he shuts the door; the cat mews by way of reply.

All at once, the worry hits him:  _ is  _ this the right outfit? Did Minerva find something she could wear? Will she feel uncomfortable? Will she like the soup? Will she understand why he likes it? What if she hates onions? What if she’s allergic to something in French onion soup? At least he knows she’s not lactose intolerant, they’ve had enough pizzas and grilled cheese sandwiches. What will she say if he tells her that dang soup is why he told her to fuck off with that destiny shit? Can he say that? Is that weird? 

And then he’s jolted out of his spiraling thoughts by a rough spot in the quote-unquote road that leads to the abandoned upper town, which means at least his attention has to go entirely to keeping the damn truck on all four wheels. That ends up being enough of a distraction that he’s a little calmer by the time he hits the gravel of the lodge drive.

When he gets there, Barclay and Stern are stacking a pile of busted two by fours. Funny to see the FBI agent with drywall dust in his hair, in a flannel shirt he’s pretty sure he’s seen the bigfoot wearing before. He nods at them, and Stern nods in reply.

“I think Mama’s got Minerva holed up getting ready,” Barclay says, then glances at Stern for some reason, who smiles back at Barclay.

He doesn’t even know what to say to that, exactly, so he just follows them up into the lodge, and all the way back into the big commercial kitchen, where Barclay switches to starting dinner. There’s some gentle joking about how Duck’s too fancy for the Lodge, going out someplace like Wolf Ember, but mostly he can stand off to the side while folks slowly fill up the kitchen to chat, watch Barclay cook, or lend a hand.

He ends up near Barclay. Turns out the cook is actually the eye of the hurricane of the kitchen, quietly tending to his stew.

“Ned said their soup was something special,” Barclay says without looking at Duck.

“It’s good stuff,” he says.

Barclay hums thoughtfully. 

He looks like he’s about to say something more when Mama’s voice rings through the din of the kitchen. “Where the hell is Duck? You people ruining his appetite before—” 

And then Minerva: “Wayne Newton, there you are! Is it time for the French Onion Soup?!”

He smiles at the sound of her voice, and turns towards her and Mama.

“Yeah, we should probably get a move on, if’n you’re ready.”

She’s wearing a  _ dress,  _ he realizes, when they get out into the lobby — no, not a dress, some sort of flowing pants thing that buttons all the way up the front. The legs only come to the middle of her calves, probably because Minerva’s got a good half-foot on Mama. She’s got a sweater on that also flows, open in the front, and she keeps petting it with a nervous smile.

“Now don’t get any damn cheese on my cashmere sweater, girl,” Mama says. She looks at Duck appraisingly. “Well, you clean up pretty good, Duck. Y’all have a good time.”

Minerva answers Mama: “Thank you, Madeline Cobb. I am sure Wayne Newton and I will have an enjoyable meal, and I shall see you tomorrow?”

“Sure, sure, don’t worry about being too early or nothing.”

At first the drive is almost awkwardly quiet, but then Minerva asks him something about work, and before he knows it he’s talking about trees like they were people he had to get her caught up on. As they pull into the Wolf Ember parking lot, he says, “Shit, Minnie, I been doing all the talking, just about dumb old trees, what the hell. You gotta stop me from doing that.”

She chuckles.

“You are a good steward to your trees, Wayne Newton, why is that something I should squelch?”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, really. Truth be told it’s kinda nice. He shrugs.

They get a few odd looks from the minimal staff at Wolf Ember Grill (Duck figures nobody’s quite back to normal yet), although he’s not sure if it’s anything about Minerva especially, or just that Duck’s here with company, who looks — he glances at Minerva, as she’s looking around the grill. She’s been keeping her head shaved, since she’s been here, and she holds herself like the fighter she is, but Mama at least got her in something decent for going out, which at least Wolf Ember Grill ain’t the fanciest place in town. Not that she wouldn’t be good there, and he can feel himself stumbling over his own thoughts in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle.

Of course Hubert gives him the glare, like always — good to see some things don’t change. And it hardly takes a moment to order the French onion soup, not much more than “yeah” and “thanks.” They still know him here, know exactly what he's going to eat. 

As they wait, he tries to ask her about trees on Mira 5, which he’s sort of wondered about before but it felt crass to ask. But they were talking about the forest, so he figures maybe it’s fair game.

She stares out the window for a long time, and Duck starts to figure maybe it wasn’t a good idea after all. Then she looks at him again, and there’s something there — something like the look she gave him when she made him a herald of whatever. 

“There were tall trees, I think,” she says finally. “And little ones, and in the cool season sometimes blossoms, and a fruit…. A little bit like your lemon? One year I lived by the sea and there were these fruit. I tried to bite one, because I was not familiar—” She laughs, then. “It was a terrible experience, Wayne Newton!”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I bet.” He’s trying to decide whether to ask for more, or whether she’s got more to say, when the server arrives with the crocks of soup, cheese dripping over the sides. He looks down at the soup as it the steam rises up from it with its rich and savory smell; he takes a deep breath, a bit like a prayer. 

When he looks up, Minerva is struggling with getting just a bit on her spoon, frowning thoughtfully at the strands pulling up from the mass of cheese.

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a puzzle, sometimes. Helps if you….” And he picks up a bit of bread from the plate between them, cuts into the cheese with his spoon, just at the edge of the crock, and scoops up a bit of onion and cheese together onto the bread.

“This French onion is different from other soups, Wayne Newton. More—” She pauses, tilting her head. “More solid? No, not solid, but not quite a liquid.”

“Well, you’ve mostly had tomato soup so far, which is pretty much peak liquid. Maybe we’ll try more soups, bet you’d go wild for a good chicken noodle. Oughta get mom’s recipe for that one, not that I’m much of a hand at it.”

“Your mother’s soup,” she asks, “is that as….” She frowns, like she’s trying to decide what to ask.

“Ain’t an insult to mom’s soup, I don’t think, to say this is better. Heck, they’re so different it’s not like they’re things to compare, except as how they’re both soup.”

“This also has a hidden meaning, Wayne Newton, does it not? This French onion soup?”

His face feels hot, and there it is, isn’t it? Twenty-some years ago, he told her to get bent, after eating this self-same soup, and now maybe he’s wishing he hadn’t.

“Well, uh, yeah ‘Nerva, I, uh…. I dunno if you remember, back when I was a kid, I told you, well, um, I said a lot of stuff that maybe, you know, in retrospect….”

She takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes, and Duck winces, because he wasn’t nice about it, and now he knows she was alone on a distant world, on top of everything else, and doesn’t that feel like a dick move.

“Yeah, so.” He buys himself a moment to think by scooping up another spoonful, this time with a bit of crouton. She’s silent as he eats, looking down at her own spoon half-buried in the soup, which sure doesn’t make things feel any easier. “Had a girlfriend, and um….”

“I understand if you felt you could not take up your duties, if there was someone you cared for,” she says softly.

He laughs, thinking of Tabitha. “Aw hell no, wasn’t like that, honestly, ain’t been anybody like that for old Duck. I’m just setting up the scene, you know, that I was trying to look cool, and as usual pretty much failing.” He tells her the rest of the story, the one that ends up with him here, cold and tired and demoralized, and discovering this soup for the first time. 

“And I guess it was the first time where I thought, that if I follow what you’re saying, and fight, I didn’t even know what, with that weirdass sword? And I beef it? Then no more French onion soup for Duck.” He lets out a sigh. “You know, only other person I told about that is Ned, and now…. That was the only time we ever got to come out here, only time he ever had this here soup. And it felt ridiculous, telling him then, that I gave up fuckin’  _ destiny  _ because of soup, and I’m not gonna lie, Minnie—” He looks at her, and there’s something utterly unreadable in her eyes, her brows pulled together under the bright blue of her tattoos. “Feels pretty fuckin’ stupid now, looking at you here, and with everything we’ve been through — hell, everything  _ you’ve _ been through, to say out loud with my own damn mouth that I was set to say no because of...what, soup?” He blows a raspberry for lack of any other words.

“I think the soup might be a metaphor, Wayne Newton,” she says, lifting a spoonful of it, not eating, just looking at it. “You were young. Too young, perhaps, as I was too young when—”

He makes what he hopes is an encouraging noise, trying to let her know that it’s okay to tell him — he doesn’t know what, but whatever it is that makes her eyes look sad.

She doesn’t follow that line of thought, instead continuing, “You needed to experience life, to cherish it, to know what might be so that you might believe enough to fight for it.” She eats the spoonful of soup, then, and a smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. “It is also very good soup.”

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” He thinks of Ned again, and Ned’s astonished exclamations, and maybe if he’d said yes to Minerva all those years ago he wouldn’t have gotten to be friends with Ned, and maybe if he had Ned wouldn’t have…. Tears jump at the corners of his eyes. “Goddamn it,” he mutters.

Minerva tilts her head questioningly.

“It’s just…. Ned.”

“Yes.” She nods. “You have not taken the time to mourn your friend, I think. There is time now, for grief and the memory of those lost.” The hollow look in her eyes is so vast that he sort of feels like an asshole, being sad about one dead conman, when she’s lost, well, everybody. She takes a deep breath, looks down, eats a little more soup. When she looks up, she’s composed again. “Aubrey and I spoke of Ned, a little, when she was our roommate.”

“Well fuck. What’d she have to say?”

“Your young friend had much guilt over his death, and the ill words exchanged between them. I tried to provide what reassurances I could. It is difficult, coming to terms with that which one wishes…. I hope that she and Dani can be a comfort to one another.”

“They’re good kids,” he says, at a loss for anything else. He hadn’t really thought about Aubrey and Minerva having that in common. He hopes it helped Minerva too; Aubrey always had such thoughtful things to say. “You know, Aubrey asked me once if I’d ever thought about therapy.”

“She mentioned this ‘therapy’ to me as well, and it seems as though it was something that helped her cope with the many challenges she faced.”

He laughs, abruptly, imagining Minerva laying on a couch like in a New Yorker cartoon. “What would we even fuckin’ say?”

Minerva shakes her head. “There is much that I gather would be difficult to explain, if I may extrapolate from my experiences so far on Earth.”

“Minnie, that might be the understatement of the damn decade.” He scoops another spoonful of onion and cheese onto a bit of bread, and allows himself to really savor it, just letting the grief and the questions sit together with the  _ rightness _ of this moment. Minerva here, on Earth, eating soup, and they’re on the far side of all that.

It’s good, he realizes; he can relax into the simple pleasure of eating soup with a friend, knowing she knows what it means, but they don’t have to talk about it. As he savors the last bit of cheese, he lets out a contented sigh.

When he looks over, Minerva is licking her spoon. Then, again that head tilt, that he's come to recognize means she’s thinking and probably about to ask an utterly buckwild question.

“What is the origin of this name, French onion soup?”

He shrugs. “Can’t say as how I ever looked it up, just figured it’s like, something from France? They got all the fancy food over there, you know, like that Julia Child shit used to be on TV when I was a kid. Real classy.”

She frowns at the spoon, opens her mouth like she’s about to speak, then closes it again. He’s never seen her blush or even look flustered, like at all, but if he was gonna put a name on that look, that’d be it exactly: flustered.

“‘Nerva?” She coughs, and now he’s worried again that maybe she’s allergic to onions. She’s taken so easy to Earth food, maybe this is— Except, no, can’t be; hell, there were onions in that meatloaf last night, he’s pretty sure. “Minnie?”

“I have heard— There is a French…. kissing? Is it somehow…. Is this also  _ classy?  _ I am not clear on the relationship between these things….” She looks down at the almost empty crock of soup, and he looks down at his, and glances at her, a little pink in her dark cheeks, the tattoos that run down her collarbone, the lines disappearing into the outfit Mama loaned her almost looking like they’re glowing, which is probably just a trick of the light. 

He takes a deep breath, thinks to himself,  _ alright, enough of that, just a normal question, just trying to figure out language and idioms and all that, no need to…. _

“Yeah, uh, I don’t, can’t say I ever, words are funny, right?” He looks everywhere but at Minerva. “Probably just, um, yeah, like, uh, a coincidence?” He can hear his voice jump, and he tries to take another steady breath. “Yup, just a, you know, people think of French stuff as, uh, fancy, I guess.”

When he finally can stand to look at Minerva again, she’s staring at him and he knows he’s being weird, and it’s nothing, but at least she doesn’t ask him what French kissing is. Not that he hardly remembers, anyway. Not that he’s thinking about it or anything.

“There are also French  _ fries,”  _ she says after a painfully long pause. “And those are not fancy, unless I am missing something?”

He lets out a held breath with a rough laugh. Definitely too loud, but couldn’t be helped.“Naw, you’re right about that; French fries are about the least fancy thing, so I dunno. I guess try not to think about it too much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's weird is I don't even particularly like French onion soup, but I did have a good one once, which was mostly about the cheese, tbh. But also, who can resist the enthusiasm of Justin, Clint, and Nana in episode 12?

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely do NOT have an outline or a plan or anything, just a pile of notes of little ideas and a general sense of the timeline of their relationship. So things will come out when they come out, but I'm gonna chase this inspiration while it's here.
> 
> Many thanks to @owlinaminor, for sharing her Minerva character study playlist and her reference doc of Minerva's appearances. The former gave me the title ([song by REM](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GV26f1nvZk)), because I went and looked up some more REM and, you know what, Automatic for the People is absolutely a Duck album. And yes, I'm still working on Teenage Kepler Wasteland, my story of teenage wastoid Duck and his friend Juno Divine.
> 
> And as always thanks to @hops for the yelling, for sharing her own fragments (I'M SO HYPE) and headcanons (Rosie fic when), and just...everything. <3


End file.
